


Blood will have blood

by flowerdeluce



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: (Specifically: George obsessing over Ross), Boxing, Gen, Missing Scene, Obsession, Yuletide 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 09:45:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8886115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerdeluce/pseuds/flowerdeluce
Summary: Following the events of Ross’s trial, George Warleggan prepares himself for what he expects will be a physical confrontation with Ross Poldark.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MildredMost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MildredMost/gifts).



> This is my first time taking part in a writing exchange and I’m so glad I was assigned to write for you.
> 
> This particular section of your wonderful letter inspired me: “I'd love George POV fic obsessing over Ross. I LOVE HIS RIDICULOUS BOXING LESSONS.” You also mentioned you enjoy missing scenes and whump. I hope this fic satisfies those desires too! 
> 
> Happy Yuletide :)  
> x

The pistols in George’s duelling case had never fired. Any self-respecting gentleman owned a pair and George refused to be an exception. A gunsmith —name of Manton— measured George’s hand to craft a beautiful, balanced weapon for him; he described it as an extension of the arm. A pistol’s purpose was defending its owner’s honour and symbolising his bravery. For George, it also demonstrated wealth. Manton’s guns were London’s most expensive; only the best for the Warleggans. 

George wondered, as he slid the ramrod into the barrel, if the Poldarks ever owned flintlocks as fine as this one. Any in Ross’s possession would have passed down the generations to gather dust, or perhaps a decent price from a generous pawnbroker. New was not always better, of course, but George had nothing to compare his experience to. He was certain he felt just as much satisfaction purchasing pistols than he would have had he inherited them. 

With the powder loaded, he eased the hammer back. The pistol, separated from its twin, was ready the moment required. Placing it with care into his bedside drawer, George doubted such an opportunity would arise. Tankard warned Ross’s release left those wishing to string him up exposed to the grudge of an ex-soldier. Ross would not dare attack him — but, if he did, George had appropriate precautions in place. He stored the other pistol in his study drawer; he needed to be on guard at all times.

His candle snuffed, the subsequent darkness inviting sleep, George welcomed the prospect of a new day. The outcome of an innocent verdict at Ross’s trial was considered but unexpected. However, if sleep was to be had, he should not dwell upon it . . . But how might Ross gain entry, if he did indeed seek retribution? He might charm his way past a maid, or two —it would not be so out of character— or bribe a footman with a pocketbook of guineas. George was reluctant to doubt the loyalty of his staff but when it came to Ross Poldark, even the most committed of men seemed easily lured.

The door to his bedchamber was locked but Ross might knock it through — he had made no attempt to disguise his miner’s muscle or soldier’s stamina before. George knew he was no match, hence the pistols. For his own security and sanity, he needed their protection; he would not brook feeling unsafe in his own home.

As he turned, ill at ease facing away from the window —another possible entry point— George realised one factor remained up to chance thus far: if Ross entered the house, crept his way undetected through corridors and breached his bedchamber, would he actually shoot him? It was all well and good to possess a weapon and practise a quick, intimidating draw. Firing it had different consequences. 

Emotional response, George could not plan. If he did fire, he should at least try considering in advance where best to aim: should he wish to put Ross down like his forebears might have a lame mare, it was the head; to merely maim, the arm or shoulder. Having spent more time counting coins than shooting game, George doubted his accuracy, especially with only one chance to get it right. 

A trigger pulled in the heat of the moment is an immediate reaction to an immediately present fear. Would it not show more strength of character then, to simply threaten? Perhaps, in Ross’s case, it was better to meet the brute’s fists with fists. Ross did not seem the type to use anything but his own hands to settle disputes; it was hardly a gentlemanly duel if only one man brandished a firearm. Ross would expect an unjust fight. George would not allow him the satisfaction of being so predictable. 

So he decided: should the first night following the trial pass uninterrupted, George would seek a method of self-defence to take Ross entirely by surprise.


	2. Chapter Two

If George was to learn the art of pugilism at speed, a good instructor was vital. He had not the luxury of time to invest joining an academy or paying a London saloon to send a tutor to him. Instead, Tankard found Edward Rawle, a local bare-knuckle boxer, at short notice. Rawle would teach at Cardew as and when required. 

George found his first lesson underwhelming. It covered footwork only. He was eager to get to jabs and punches, and anything that caused harm. Being steady on your feet, Rawle said, was as integral to boxing as copper was to mining — George found this turn of phrase most amusing. The steps required practice, as avoiding punches was imperative to defending oneself. After a few slips and slides across the drawing room’s polished floor —for it was here he decided they would practise— George began to get to grips with leaping back from Rawle’s punches and sustaining a stance that stopped him tipping over. 

After luncheon, consisting of energy boosting fruit at Rawle’s suggestion, training resumed. When Rawle produced two rolls of white cloth and explained they would protect George’s knuckles, things finally felt exciting. George held out his arms, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, his stock and neck-cloth absent, as Rawle wrapped his hands and wrists with skilful familiarity. Once secured, George clenched his fists, feeling the fabric tauten. An instant, powerful frisson of adrenaline spiked through him. After spending most of his life avoiding physicality, here he was: wrists wrapped, ready to fight. 

They began with a fighting stance. Following Rawle’s example, George positioned himself, fists forward, elbows bent. He was a quick study and Rawle congratulated his newest pupil on his aptitude for the sport. In next to no time George was jabbing and ducking, concentration unfaltering. His focus was Ross’s defeat, something he would never grow tired of imagining. 

George had not explained his motivation to Rawle and did not expect to receive questions upon it. Boxing was not the sport of a gentleman and it was obvious, from both his stature and station, George had never been the type for combat sports. However, when Tankard sauntered in to announce how wise it was to take precautions against Ross Poldark, George knew it would pique Rawle’s curiosity. As predicted, following the session Rawle asked if this Mr Poldark wished him harm. As an out-of-towner and a man of low standing, George did not expect Rawle to know of Ross. The trial and its defamatory handbills had obviously not reached as far as Padstow. 

“I suspect he wishes me more than harm,” George replied, holding his hands out for the other man to unwrap. 

“In that case,” Rawle said, lowering his voice, “might I propose a few alternative defence methods?” 

Rawle’s disreputable advice brought a smile to George’s face. A knee to a man’s groin takes him down quicker than a hit to his face, Rawle told him. With his hands, he demonstrated how to grip a man’s head to dig one’s thumbs into the eye sockets. Everyday items, he continued, could easily take the place of weapons. He advised George to look to his surroundings in case of emergency: a heavy wall-hanging, a tool from a companion set, a candlestick, even a walking cane would make more impact than a fist. It would also do less damage to his hands. 

George listened, riveted, ensuring to appear appropriately appalled by some of the suggestions. For a brief moment, he found himself hoping for a stand-off with Ross if only to put a few into action. 

“Of course, sir,” Rawle said, leaning in close, “you should attempt none of this unless your life is in danger.”

George nodded. “Naturally.”


	3. Chapter Three

The initial fear George felt following Ross’s release developed into dry-mouthed anticipation. Planning his response to whatever course of action his opponent took, if any, had made him bold. In front of the mirror, he practised the steadfast expression Ross would look upon while humiliated and beaten. Rawle’s sessions continued and the daily exercise left George revitalised and confident. That was until he and Ross came face to face in Truro’s market street. 

Confronting the man he pictured standing in Rawle’s place reminded George just how much larger and more intimidating Ross was than his instructor. Ross would never attack him in public; they both knew the damage that would do to their reputations, perhaps fatally so in Ross’s case. Following Rawle’s advice, George kept a strong cane on him at all times while outside the Warleggan estate. He felt no safer for it. The knowledge of his unyielding fear in Ross’s proximity, even after his practice, made George frantic. 

A footman now stood watch outside his bedchamber at night, another two at the estate’s main entrance. Rawle’s lessons increased. George remained resolute in front of his servants, family and advisor that these precautions had absolutely nothing to do with Ross Poldark. A weakness of character, in the form of fear, was not something he would let them be privy to. 

After the brutal assault on Ross’s manservant, George expected it to be the spark that finally burst the tinderbox of Ross’s patience into flame. A second chance meeting upon the cliffs occurred some weeks later. When Ross turned his horse, blocking the path, it took every bit of George’s courage to retain a calm demeanour throughout the short confrontation. A loaded pistol sat tucked within his saddlebag; if Ross tried anything, he was more than willing to withdraw it. There was no need, for Ross left only a threat of retribution hanging in the sharp, sea air behind him. George was right; the attack on Judd Paynter —a ragged, pathetic excuse for a man— angered Ross exactly as expected.

From that moment on, George’s dread concerning the situation’s conclusion only increased. By choosing not to act, yet, Ross drew out George’s torment of knowing something was coming. The only thing to do was devise a plan to make Ross look like the lesser man.


	4. Chapter Four

To a certain extent, it was with relief that George accepted the seeds of his and Ross’s hostility finally bearing fruit. At least he no longer lived in fear of physical confrontation. Ross proved himself the weaker man when, unable to contain his emotions like a gentleman, he resorted to violence. It would get about that Ross attacked unprovoked and George’s part in the brawl was purely self-preservation — the only acceptable reason to behave in such a primitive manner. It was no use trying to stop the story getting about; the Red Lion’s regulars saw it all and word travelled fast in Truro. 

Following the fight, George took his leave from the Red Lion in an honourable fashion, regardless of the pain he was in. He accepted no assistance of any kind and approached his carriage unaided. Throughout his return journey, his head remained high despite the taste of blood in his mouth and the noticeable damage to his clothing.

Once within the safety of Cardew, George instructed his valet to fill a bath and leave out a robe. He declined attendance, permitting no witnesses to the wounds upon his person. The staff’s knowledge of himself and Ross Poldark locking antlers was enough of an embarrassment. 

The pain was a constant pulse in his limbs, a throbbing beneath his skin. While giving Ross all he had, George had still come off the worst. Every movement, and each intake of breath, ached deep in his bones, rendering the simple task of undressing almost impossible. He persevered. 

The blood on his waistcoat might wash out but the seams had torn badly, the threads bare. His breeches were also ruined, left thigh lacerated and knees scuffed. They were in need of repair and George had half a mind to send the bill to the Poldark estate. Mending them was unnecessary, however. He could buy newer, better garments that would not be a reminder of failure. 

He wondered if Ross’s clothes were in a similar state. If they were, his pliant wife was most likely sat presently with needle and thread, darning them. When was the last time Demelza wore a new dress, or attended a ball? Dropping his clothes into the fire, George imagined how she might wince at seeing such fine cloth burn. Despite her husband’s heritage, the Poldarks had to make do and mend. The Warleggans need not stoop to such a level.

As he lowered himself into the bathtub, George hissed despite himself. Blood coloured the water. In the fire’s glow, his skin had the appearance of bruised fruit, each blossoming mark a punctuation point for the ongoing feud; it was over. 

Tipping his head back, he ran the fight through his memory. It was a mere blur, a flurry of movement shortened by adrenaline. He managed some good lunges, remained on his feet, struck Ross with his cane — it was a shame it had broken in the scuffle. Rawle would have been proud. Holding Ross against the wall, taking him entirely by surprise, had been more than satisfying. The water began to soothe rather than smart as George’s muscles loosened. 

He wondered if his efforts left traces on Ross’s body. What a pleasant sight that would be! He pictured his thumbs pressing against Ross’s fresh bruises, pushing into the sensitive hollows of his bones. He would scratch them too, red lines trailing his fingernails, blood drawing up on the other man’s skin. The scratches would leave scars, like that across Ross’s cheek. George’s violation of Ross’s body would be torturously slow, until he begged for his ordeal to end. 

Pistols, blades or bludgeons be damned! George would find more fulfilment in torturing Ross with nothing more than his hands. The only thing better would be his mouth, a bite sinking into the fleshy parts of him, branding him with the imprint of his teeth. Such a base fantasy left him breathless — he made sure to control it. 

Once his own bruises faded, George could continue as normal, as if the fight never happened. He would find satisfaction in dismissing it, as though it meant nothing. George would return to society unperturbed, taking his constitutionals with head held high and proving to Ross he was impossible to intimidate. When it came to the exchange of blows, George may have lost the fight but the battle with Ross Poldark —waged for as long as he could remember— he was even more determined to win. 

Of course, Elizabeth was the greatest prize; George factored her into all his decisions one way or another. To snatch her from the destitution left in her husband’s wake with the offer of a better life he sometimes imagined laughably easy. His greatest fantasy however, the thing he chiefly desired, was to see Ross Poldark on his knees and at his mercy before him, admitting defeat. He could not achieve this ambition on a grudge. 

George did not believe in fate; he turned the wheel of fortune himself, by offering Ross the hand of friendship time and time again, knowing full well he would refuse it. When Ross was desperate enough to beg for his help as he once prophesied, George would smile and inform him assistance from the Warleggans was no longer available, the hand declined. There would be a flicker of fight left on Ross’s face, the twitch of a snarl on his lips. 

Reclining in the bathtub, George knew that would make winning all the sweeter.


End file.
